


Bad Habits

by PumpkinDoodles



Series: Hey, Pumpkin! Halloween Fics [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Darcy Lewis is the world's least threatening fairy godmother, F/M, She just likes to help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinDoodles/pseuds/PumpkinDoodles
Summary: When you're undercover in HYDRA, it doesn't take long to realize the supernatural is real. Once you've seen an invocation to Red Skull, all bets are off. But Brock Rumlow isn't expecting his plea for help to be answered on a Monday afternoon.
Relationships: Darcy Lewis/Brock Rumlow
Series: Hey, Pumpkin! Halloween Fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907872
Comments: 129
Kudos: 527





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Acheron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acheron/gifts), [Faceworthy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faceworthy/gifts).



> *I own nothing! Acheron asked for a gender-flipped take on Witch!Darcy and Fae!Brock in my last story--"A Favor You Can't Refuse"--and then this was all I could think about.

It was a bad habit, Brock Rumlow thought, to _ask_ for things. A dangerous habit. He crumpled up the half-drafted spell on the paper and tossed it in the trash can with a sigh. He should know better by now, he told himself, tapping his scarred fingers across his kitchen table and reaching for the red cornetto on the chain around his neck. But he grew up in an Italian household, full of little superstitions:

_If a black cat crosses your path, it’s an ill omen._

_Never make a toast with water._

_It’s unlucky to spill the olive oil and the salt._

_Never wish someone good luck, lest you bring misfortune. Say ‘In bocca al lupo!’ instead._

It’s his work for SHIELD--and his undercover assignment within HYDRA--that introduces him to the truly supernatural. Every HYDRA meeting had opened with an invocation. HYDRA grasped for things--advantages by any means necessary--so is it any surprise that they would seek the help of demons? Without really meaning to, he was forced to practice a twisted, bitter form of the old ways. Forced to call on Schmidt for guidance. He did it without sincerity, but his action brought the evil eye down on him, anyway. The burns are proof of that. He had seen too much, he thought, glancing out the apartment window. The DC skyline is normal, but he isn’t, not anymore.

What he really longed for was help. Some cure for the eyes that followed him nervously wherever he went, the coworkers that looked frightened. He would like not to terrify small children in public and to be trusted by his colleagues again. Brock sighed. “A little fucking help,” he said out loud. 

* * *

He was sitting in his office the next day when there was a rap at the door. _Knock-knock-knock._ “Yeah?” he called out, expecting Rollins or Hill.

“A little help!” a female voice called back. He didn’t recognize the voice. Brock got up and opened the door curiously. The small figure practically tumbled onto his carpet, only catching herself against his arm. “Whoops,” she said, grinning up at him. “I’m a little late. Those are nice.” She patted his arm. She was pretty, he thought. He registered her eyes first. Blue eyes looked at him mischievously from behind rectangular glasses. She turned to drag a rolling suitcase over the threshold. It was decorated with stickers from a variety of locations. Things were hanging off of it, clanging noisily. “Sorry about that,” she said, smiling brightly. “I had trouble getting Jane here. I was really worried you’d go astray before I got to you, but you’re fine.” She surveyed the room. “I’m glad you’ve got a quiet office, that makes it easier,” she told him.

“Excuse me?” he said, gaze dropping to her mouth. It was a good mouth. Wide and full. “Late for what?” he asked. He would remember her, he thought, if they’d ever met before. He still had a good memory for beautiful women, even if he wasn’t dating right now. She huffed out a little sigh.

“I’m here to help,” she said. She rolled the suitcase to the middle of the floor and opened it. There were all kinds of bottles and packages inside. “Are you going to be difficult?” she asked, looking up from where she’d knelt on the floor. “I thought you knew about _things.”_

“I don’t follow,” Brock said, eyeing her suitcase. A brown cylinder rolled across the office carpet. 

“Come back here,” she ordered, turning her head to look at the cylinder. It rolled back slowly. Brock stared, mouth dropping open.

“It came back,” he said.

“It’s mint,” she said. “You know how mint wants to go everywhere.”

“Mint,” he repeated. 

“It’s very excited to help,” she told him. Brock wondered what the polite thing to do was; he looked at the woman sitting on his floor and frowned.

“I asked for help,” he said slowly. 

“Yes!” she said. She beamed at him. “Come sit, I’ve gotta make you up something,” she said, patting the floor. He sat down, studying her face and the contents of the suitcase curiously. He realized he didn’t know her name. Was it polite to ask? “My lemon balm is missing in action. Where are you?” she said, evidently talking to the plant. “Ah ha!” she said, locating a vial. “Hiding from me down there, when we’re here to help Commander Rumlow.” 

“And you are--?” he asked carefully.

“Oh. I forgot! I’m Darcy. Darcy Lewis. It’s kind of my thing,” she explained, gesturing. She offered him her hand. He shook it carefully. She grinned. “You’re a little scared--”

“No, no,” he said.

“I’m totally not scary. Technically, I work for Jane Foster, but it’s sort of a Lewis family tradition to have a sideline. We help people. A little of this, a little of that,” she said, tilting her head back and forth in unison with the hand holding a brown vial.

“You help people,” he said slowly. 

“Yup,” she said. She leaned over and whispered. “Fairy blood, supposedly.” Her eyes were bright.

“Seriously?” he said, feeling his eyebrows go up.

“Nobody believes me,” she said, looking a little deflated.

“Sorry,” he said. “That was rude of me.”

“Just don’t do the Cinderella thing, if you ever meet my mother, it makes her crazy,” Darcy said.

“Cinderella?” he said. 

“Bippity boppity--” she whispered. “My brother used to do it as a joke. Mom turned his Corolla into a pumpkin once.” She giggled. “Temporarily.”

“Did you get a photo?” he asked dryly. Darcy beamed at him, nodding.

“The paint color was always a little orange in the right light afterwards,” she said. “We’re going to get along, I can tell. That’s always good.” She scrunched her nose. “Jane never sits still enough.” Brock was a little charmed, he could admit. He sat obediently as she asked a series of questions. “Diabetes?” she said.

“Nope.”

“Liver issues?” He shook his head. “Blood clotting problems?” she asked.

“Nope,” he said. “Just all of this.” He gestured to the burns on his face. “And a little depression.”

“Lemon balm can be helpful for that, it’s even in Carmelite water,” she said. 

“Carmelite water?”

“Herbal tonic traditionally made by nuns,” Darcy said, dabbing something on his forehead. His resisted the urge to look dubious.

“Sure,” he said. She hummed slightly and seemed pleased. 

“I think your neurotransmitters got a little dented. You could eat more Indian food,” she added. “That’s easy enough, no one asks any questions.”

“Indian food?” he asked, not following.

“Masala chai has cardamon, cloves, ginger, cinnamon,” she said. “Anything with turmeric and saffron’s good for somebody in your state. I like nutmeg and a little butter on my pasta, too,” she said, seeming to catch sight of his cornetto. She grinned a little. “That’s good. Coral?” He nodded; cornettos were traditionally made in red coral. “Just work a little on your bad habits,” she said.

“My Ma gave me that. Bad habits?” he asked, grinning back.

“Not getting enough sleep, neglecting your good spices,” she said. “Have a nice pepper steak and some egg noodles now and then.” She was massaging his scalp now. Those blue eyes were bright.

“Sure,” he agreed, feeling like a cat having his ears scratched. It was a happy, content feeling. He sighed, feeling tension ease out of his body. It was like a good, solid stretch. And a light buzz at the same time. 

“But I wouldn’t rule out a nice modern pharmaceutical,” Darcy said. “Nothing wrong with a good antidepressant. SHIELD medical’s very obliging.” He nodded. She gave his ears a little scratch. “There you go,” she said. She sat back and started packing her things. 

“You’re going?” he said, feeling disappointed.

“I have a regular job,” she said. She grinned at him. “But I’ll be around. Jane’s new lab is in Sector B. I finagled the side with all the sunshine.”

“That matters?” he said.

“To Jane, yes. She gets grumpy in the dark,” Darcy said. “So, here’s my number.” She passed him a card.

“Darcy Lewis, Science Wrangler?” he read aloud. The card had a cartoon version of her with spurred boots and a lasso.

“Yup,” she said. “It’s more or less true.” She rolled out her suitcase and he watched her go a little wistfully. 

If he got masala chai at the coffee shop that afternoon, who’d even notice? He was less tired that evening, he thought. And he slept better. He went to medical the next day and left with an Rx for the pharmacy.

* * *

A few days later, he knocked on the apartment door. He’d gotten the address from SHIELD’s database. Darcy opened it. “Hello,” she said brightly. “Feeling better?” 

“Yeah,” he said, feeling oddly shy. He never felt shy with women. But she was something else. “I was, uh, going out for Indian food. Thought I could take you to dinner?” he asked.

“Great idea,” she said, smiling. “I’ll get my coat and Tiny Science.”

“Tiny Science?” he said, baffled.

“You haven’t met Jane!” she said, evidently excited. “I forgot!” She leaned over the door frame to whisper. “I can’t leave her unattended, she burns mac n’ cheese, but she’s working on a theorem now, so she’ll be quiet.”

“Sure,” he said. That was how he found himself sitting with Darcy at a restaurant while Jane scribbled notes at the adjoining table. “She’s, uh, intense,” he said, looking at a frowning Jane.

“Yup,” Darcy said. “She’s my primary calling, really. I saw a flyer about an internship and _poof.”_ She gestured and scooped up her food with some bread. “Years later, here we are. Jane’s a genius. She made her own BiFrost. She just needs careful management.”

“Yeah, I heard about that,” he said. “The Einstein Rosen bridge?” She nodded, chewing. 

“That’s the one! God, I love naan,” she told him. 

“That’s good,” he said. “My nonna always said you ought to respect your bread.”

“Yeah?” she said. He realized she was curious.

“Never turn your bread upside down to cut it,” he supplied. She nodded.

“Very wise nonna,” she said. “How’s your food?”

“Good,” he said. “Very spicy.” He grinned at her slyly. “If somebody needed more care, what would they have to do?” he asked.

“For me?” she said, looking amused.

“You like presents?” he offered. 

“Are you attempting a bribe, Commander Rumlow?” she asked.

“Brock,” he said. “Call me Brock.” He leaned forward. “Scarves? Jewelry?” He reached across and tapped the pom-pom on her cap. “More little hats?” he asked.

“Stop that,” she said. But her eyes were bright. “Brock,” she added. When she said his name, he felt a little thrill. 

“I could take you and Tiny Science to a movie?” he said.

“Better,” she said. He smirked and she waved her fork at him. “Eat your nutmeg,” she said. “And quit trying to charm me, sir.”

“I thought I was the one who’d been charmed,” he said, feigning innocence. She started to giggle then.

“You’re going to ruin my business model,” she said. “I don’t date on the job.”

“Well, you know, at my age,” he said, shrugging, “it gets more and more difficult to socialize. And you know I’ve been having difficulties lately. So, you’d be _helping_ me, really.”

“Ugh,” Darcy said. “You said the word. You sneak!”

“It’s my history,” he said. “All that undercover work gave me bad habits. I really need intensive care to get myself sorted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian superstitions! https://miciitalian.com/7-surprising-italian-superstitions-you-need-to-know/


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Brock was just back from a mission in the Sahara when he found himself dreading going home to an empty apartment. He wanted to see her, he realized as he drove near Darcy and Jane's apartment. Darcy had sweetly rebuffed his more romantic overtures--he'd sent flowers and candy--because she said it was bad magical ethics for them to date. He’d talked her and Jane into a few movies instead. There had been an almost-kiss when she ran into him in SHIELD’s archives one rainy afternoon, but nothing more. Instead, she got him into a group for disaffected witches. And she sent him encouraging notes. He found them in unusual places: his desk at work, his gym bag, even his pockets. They hadn’t seen each other in person for two weeks and he missed her. Brock sighed. If he told her that he didn’t give a damn about ethics, she would remind him that this was another of his bad habits. He made a left at the intersection, drove to her apartment, and parked near her door. Should he go up? Her presence was like sunshine and she smelled like cupcakes. He felt like rooms were brighter whenever Darcy was in them. He sat for a minute, then unbuckled his seatbelt. He was going. 

Darcy answered his knock through the door. “Brock!” she yelled without seeing him. “Come in! I'm in the middle of a situation.” The deadbolt clicked open and then there was a loud crash. “Oh, damn!” he heard her say, voice muffled. Hurriedly, Brock pushed the door in.

“Darcy?” he called out, stepping inside the apartment. She was sitting on the floor, sweeping up something shattered and shiny. Glass, he registered. There was glass and dirt and leaves. “You okay?” he asked. She looked slightly off. There was dirt on her clothes. Her glasses had slid down her nose and there was a smudge of dirt on the tip. Pieces of her hair stood up in a halo around her head and several tendrils escaped from the clip at her neck.

“No,” she said, tone mournful. She glanced at him, then back down. “Hi, sorry. I'm having difficulty with my rosemary. Which is very out of character of you,” she more sternly, clearly talking to the plant and dirt scattered on the floor. “I don't know if it's the phases of the moon or the humidity, but I am as frazzled as my hair,” she told him, sighing. “This was my favorite bell jar and just _whoosh, boom._ ”

“Let me help,” Brock said, crouching down to take the broom and dustpan away from her. “I’ll get this for you. Why don’t you get cleaned up?”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a soft smile. Then she shook her head at the rosemary as she sat it up. “There’s no need to be Sylvia Plath!” she scolded. “I’m not trying to suffocate you.” Brock laughed, then felt guilty when she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Sorry,” he said, unable not to smirk.

“A bell jar is a gentler ecosystem, not jail,” she grumbled, standing up and brushing the dirt on her knees towards the dust pan. He watched her as she left the room. “I don’t know what’s wrong with all my things lately,” she called from the bathroom.

“Something going wrong with all your things?” he said back, still sweeping. He got all the glass pieces, then took them into the kitchen. She could possibly repair this, he thought, studying them. He’d seen it done once or twice. Someone in group had shown them a small repairing spell. He thought about it for a second, tilted his head, and whispered _ripariamo_ quietly. He always felt safer using Italian, somehow. As he watched, the bits and pieces of glass swirled, rose, and repaired themselves. He was rinsing the dirt off when she emerged, freshly scrubbed and in clean clothes.

“Nothing’s listening to me latel--you fixed it!” Darcy said. “Thank you.” She beamed at him and he felt a thrill. “Where’d you learn that?” she asked.

“Group,” he said, feeling a little sheepish.

“Mmm-hmm,” Darcy said, grinning. “I thought you’d learn some nice things there.”

“Mostly, we just talk about our feelings,” Brock said, scrunching his nose. That actually made her giggle.

“God, I love when you do that,” she said, shaking herself slightly. The movement reminded him oddly of a dog shaking off. “Cut it out.”

“Talk about my feelings?” he said dryly.

“Scrunch your nose,” she said in a dreamy voice as she went to the fridge. “It’s wildly annoying that even your silly faces are so attractive--oh, _no.”_

“What’s wrong?” he said. 

“I was going to do something with the milk and it’s gone off. Everything’s being so weird!” Darcy said. “It’s like the house is going haywire without Jane.”

“Where’s Jane?” Brock said.

“Mini romantic trip with Thor,” Darcy said. “But this never happened before. Maybe it’s my mood, I feel frazzled so they feel frazzled?” She was almost talking to herself as she held the milk carton. 

“That sounds possible,” Brock offered, trying for neutrality. He had no idea. But she did look stressed.

“But it’s so odd,” Darcy said. “My basil’s flavor is off, lots of my herbs are just listless. I could understand if it was the heat but I moved everyone inside.” She waved her arms around. “This morning my twinkle lights died and won’t light, even though I replaced the batteries _and_ tried incantations. I won’t even mention the burned popcorn and the way my liquid eyeliner won’t do flicks right and that my M&Ms have just disappeared,” she grumbled. “I’m cold all the time. And I take naps and wake up tired!”

“Huh,” he said. “Funny.” He moved to the kitchen window as she leaned against the counter with a huff.

“What are you doing?” Darcy said.

“Checking your windows for...anything,” Brock said.

“No one’s going to mess with me,” Darcy said, as he ran his hands over the latch and frame. It all felt fine. The window worked normally and there were no supernatural hotspots.

“Sure,” he said mildly. “But let me check all your windows, all right?”

“Okay,” Darcy said, grinning as if this amused her. She trailed him through the rooms, watching as he checked everything. He even checked the apartment’s fuse box panel and the water heater closet carefully. “Who would hurt me?” Darcy asked suddenly, as he checked her bedroom window. Everything seemed fine.

“You never know,” he said. “Maybe somebody comes for Jane through you, something like that.” Then he cringed, realizing his voice was grim. “I don’t mean it’s likely--” he added, pausing for a moment, “but you’re important to lots of people.”

“Oh,” Darcy said. He heard the mattress move as she plopped down heavily. He was trying not to think too much about her in a bed.

“Like me,” he said in a low voice. 

“That’s very flattering,” she said. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was wiggling her toes. She looked up at him with a smile. “I accidentally put on two different socks today, too.” He glanced at her feet. One of the socks was blue with otters and the other was red and beige. “I don’t even know how that happened,” she said, looking quizzically at her feet.

“Does that one say _you crafty bitch?”_ Brock asked.

“Blue Q,” she supplied. “They make fun socks. I love them.”

“Well, your windows and doors are fine. And I don’t see anything out of the ordinary,” he said. 

“Thank you,” she repeated. 

“I thought _thank yous_ were risky?” he said, remembering a bit of fae lore. “Doesn’t that obligate you to me?” He grinned.

“Whoops,” Darcy said. “Stay and let’s have dinner then? I’ll pay.” 

“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re clearly having an off day, let me handle things,” Brock said. He got her comfortably settled on her couch with a mug of her favorite coffee and a blanket because she was still chilly and called in a delivery. “Garlic and pepper shrimp?” Brock offered. “Spices’ll warm you up.”

“Yes,” Darcy said, “good idea.”

“Somebody taught me well,” he said. “Also, I found your peanut M&Ms, sweetheart.”

“Where were they?” she asked. “I looked _everywhere.”_

“Behind your mixer,” he said.

“You sneaks,” Darcy called into the kitchen. “I’m going to eat you!” Brock couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing. She was the cutest fairy godmother. “What?” Darcy said.

“You’re cute,” he told her.

“Pfffht,” Darcy said. “I’m a mess today. I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Brock said. They were eating when the apartment suddenly changed: was it his imagination, or did the twinkle lights strung around the fireplace seem to brighten and the whole atmosphere shift? 

“Ooooh,” Darcy said.

“Lights got brighter?” he said. She nodded.

“The apartment is happier,” she said. “The energy’s changed.”

“Are you happier?” he asked. “Because, uh, I am. Whenever you’re around.”

“Oh.” She looked at him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I am?” she said, looking a little stunned. She glanced down, expression going oddly shy. “I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed right now.”

“Yeah?” he said, leaning towards her. He moved his takeout container to the coffee table and gently cupped her chin carefully. “What if we try...things..to see how the apartment responds?” he said, kissing her lightly. He pulled back when the lights around the fireplace went from steady to chasing.

“Ahhh,” Darcy said. “Guys!”

“Eh, I’m not sure,” Brock said. “Let’s try again?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to revisit these two cuties and I'm in a little bit of a Halloween mood anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing! Faceworthy requested something with this meme: https://jenerallymarvelous.tumblr.com/post/628462213339004928/i-dont-even-effing-know-anymore

“Ahhh,” Darcy shrieked, as her coffee mug bounced across the kitchen counter. “What are you _doing?”_ she asked the mug. “You’re going to crack yourself.” 

“That was me, sorry,” Brock said, yawning as he stepped into the kitchen. “I was just trying to get it to move, see if I could pass it to you.” He raked a hand through his hair, yawning. “Why are you up so early?” He’d woken up alone. 

“Ohhhh,” Darcy said, tone shifting. “That’s _great,_ honey. Thank you.” She kissed his chin--she was aiming for his mouth and reaching for the cup at the same time--and rubbed his chest absent-mindedly. 

“You could have woken me,” he added, putting an arm around her. Behind her, he noticed that the lights strung along the top of the cabinets were blinking in a wild, irregular pattern. 

“I thought you needed the sleep," she said. He grinned at her. But she was clearly preoccupied. "I have so much to do today,” she said, worrying her lip and looking into middle distance. “I’ve got to get Jane to work, my muffins are _almost_ done, I need to go help my other people, then my mom’s flight is getting in after work--” she murmured. She stepped around him and then called down the hallway. “Jane, are you awake yet?!”

“Yes,” a muffled voice said distantly.

“I know she’s lying,” Darcy said. “She’s still in bed. But she gets mad if I wake her up magically--”

“How come I can’t know who your other people are?” Brock wondered, frowning. 

“Privacy is important,” Darcy said. “It’s like HIPAA compliance.”

“HIPAA?” he repeated, voice wry.

“You know what I mean,” Darcy said. “It's the principle." She sighed. "I’m doing it. She’ll forgive me later.” A second later, the sound of several alarms going off simultaneously came from behind Jane’s closed bedroom door.

“Damn it, Darcy!” Jane yelled.

“We’re going to be late!” Darcy said back, in a deceptively cheery voice. Then she turned back to her bag on the kitchen counter. “She knows how my mom makes me,” Darcy muttered.

“Just how scary is your mother?” Brock wondered. They were all having dinner tonight. 

“She’s not scary, she’s just--” Darcy paused thoughtfully-- “really, really competent. You know how everyone talks about Peggy Carter giving that speech to a bunch of midcentury dudebros, all _I know my value?”_ she asked him.

“Yeah?” Brock said.

“My mom is like that,” Darcy said. “She’s just so _sure_ of everything and it kinda stresses me out. Also, her hair never seems to frizz and she doesn’t go around collecting dog hair as an accessory, which I’m sure is a total fae thing, that gene just skipped me entirely.” 

“Sweetheart,” Brock said, rubbing her shoulders, “you have amazing hair and all dogs love you, even the SHIELD security canines.” Darcy beamed at him.

“You always know what to say,” she said. 

“I try,” he said wryly. She sighed as he squeezed her.

“Today’s gonna be a high-stress day, I know it.” She looked into her bag grimly. “Where did the lemon go? I had an entire lemon in here! Where’d you go?” She ducked under the table, peering at the floor. “Come back, we need you for tea!” she called. 

“He’s over here,” Brock said, spotting the lemon near the sink. He grabbed it, tossing it, and then passed it to her. She’d turned to follow his movements.

“Thank you,” Darcy said, clearly grateful. She smiled at him and down at the lemon. “Don’t play that trick again, pal.” Brock looked at her. He didn’t _mean_ to say it just then, but it bubbled up unexpectedly.

“I don’t want to add stress to your day,” he began, swallowing nervously.

“What’s wrong?” Darcy asked, chin jerking up. She was immediately wide-eyed with alarm.

“No, no,” he said. He took a breath and started again. “I don’t want to add more stress to your day, but I--”

“What?” she whispered.

“I love you,” he said. 

“Oh.” Delight flooded her face. “You just wanted to add something else to my day, huh?” she said teasingly.

“What could it hurt?” Brock asked.

“I love you, too,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. They were kissing when Jane stumbled into the kitchen.

“M’ready,” she said, yawning. Her plaid shirt was half-buttoned. 

“Oh. Oh! I have to go!” Darcy said, letting go of him.

“Okay,” Brock said, watching as she herded Jane out the front door.

“I love you!” Darcy said.

He was standing in the kitchen when the oven dinged. Her muffins. He’d just gotten them out of the oven and put a few in a lunch bag when the door opened again. “My muffins!” Darcy said urgently. Her scarf was askew. The houseplants swayed slightly and the lights blinked erratically.

“I got ‘em, sweetheart,” he said. “Some for you and Jane?”

“You’re wonderful, you’re perfect--” she began.

“You’re late,” he said. She beamed at him, took the bag with a kiss, and hurried out again. “Do you want me to go with you to the airport?” he called after her.

“Yes!” she said. The door shut with a _whoosh._

* * *

“There’s Mom,” Darcy said. They were idling in the pick-up zone at Dulles. Brock sat down his to-go cup of coffee and squinted at the travelers through his windshield.

“Which one is your mother?” he asked. 

“In the black and yellow scarf,” Darcy said. The crowd parted and Brock got his first glimpse of Darcy’s mother. She was wearing a crisp black suit, heels, and had a scarf wrapped around her hair. When she turned, he got a glimpse of a pale face, red lips, dark, straight bangs, and...

“Is she wearing _fur?”_ Brock said.

“I’ve told her not to wear that stole,” Darcy grumbled. “She swears it’s not real, but it looks real.” She sighed and popped open the car door. “Mom!” Darcy called.

“Your mother wears fur?” Brock repeated.

“I know,” Darcy said in a low voice. “She _really_ doesn’t follow the rules…”

When he got out of the car to take her rolling suitcase, Darcy’s mother smiled at him. It was honestly terrifying. “Mrs. Lewis,” he said, wondering if the woman in front of him had gotten the full gamut of fey genes. There was something otherworldly about her beautiful face and Cleopatra bob. Her eyes were cool and assessing.

“Please call me Dahlia,” she said throatily. “Everyone does, Mr. Rumlow.”

“Brock,” he said, offering his hand. She studied his palm with narrowed eyes. 

“He works quite a bit, doesn’t he?” Dahlia said archly. She widened her eyes slightly. “Works out as well.”

“Mom,” Darcy said, sighing.

“It makes a nice change from Ian,” she drawled. Darcy made a face. “What? I meant it as a compliment.”

“Sure,” Brock said mildly. “It’s a nice compliment.” Darcy shook her head.

“Are you staying at the Ritz again?” Darcy asked as they walked towards his vehicle. 

“I thought I was staying with you, darling?” Dahlia said. “Don’t you want to spend time together?”

“Sure,” Darcy said. “Sounds great.” Brock thought even she looked a little daunted.

“Wonderful,” her mother said. Brock opened the car door for her and then wheeled her suitcase around to the trunk. He looked at Darcy. She looked anxious.

“How much fey is she? Eighty percent? Eighty-five?” Brock said, chuckling. She grinned.

“Shhh,” Darcy whispered. 

“You could’ve told me you had a very scary mother,” he whispered.

“She’s not that scary,” Darcy said. When he raised his eyebrows, she looked guilty. “Okay, maybe a little…”

They were weaving in and out of DC traffic when Dahlia spoke again. She’d been refreshing her lipstick when she capped it with a click and met Brock’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “You should know that I do approve of you,” she said. 

“That’s good,” Brock said. At the same time, Darcy huffed.

“I’m an adult,” she said.

“Oh, I know that, darling,” her mother said. “But you’re so _giving._ She gives everything to other people--”

“She’s very generous,” Brock admitted.

“That’s completely her father. He’s a soft touch. I always tell her, you’re going to exhaust yourself by the time you’re forty if you don’t invest in boundaries and self-care.”

“Not this again,” Darcy muttered.

“And now you have Brock,” Dahlia finished, as if she hadn’t heard Darcy. “Which is quite perfect.”

“I don’t follow,” Darcy said, turning back to her mother.

“Who better to police your boundaries for you so you aren’t taken advantage of?” her mother said. “He’s practically born for it.”

“Oh,” Darcy said.

“The apartment likes you, doesn’t it?” Dahlia asked.

“Yes,” they both said at once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was trying to think of what Darcy Lewis's scary-ish mother would look like and all I could think of was Gillian Anderson in her dark bob from "Crooked House." The perfect mother if your family is rumored to have fae lineage:  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I own nothing!

Brock smiled at Dahlia across Darcy’s coffee table. Dahlia smiled back. Next to her, Darcy’s knitting needles clacked away, weaving multicolored yarn in a cheerful pattern. “She’s working on a scarf,” Brock said. “From a tv show she likes.”

“Yes,” Dahlia said. “She won’t let me magic one up, she insists on doing the work like this.”

“The needles need practice!” Darcy called from the kitchen. “They get rusty--literally.”

“I am outvoted,” Dahlia said, shrugging. She sipped her tea. Brock looked around the room, wondering what to say next. Jane was off on a weekend of observing the stars with Thor.

“Did you have a nice trip to the, uh, museum?” he asked politely. Darcy had taken her mother to an exhibit of First Ladies’ clothing at the Smithsonian while he was on a SHIELD mission. “I’m sad I missed it,” he added.

“It was was lovely,” Dahlia said. “We had a wonderful time.”

“I did like the sleeves on the Eleanor Roosevelt dress,” Darcy said, coming into the room with two mugs of coffee for them. Brock stood and took them from her. “They had pink sequins.”

“She’s always liked anything sparkly,” Dahlia said. “Hence--” She gestured around the room. Darcy had hung more lights in the living room. Firework style ones. He’d helped with the stick on hooks on the ceiling. The lights were flashing in an on-off pattern that made them look like fireworks exploding.

“Are you making fun of my twinkle lights?” Darcy asked, putting her hands on her hips. She was grinning, though.

“I am not saying anything,” Dahlia said. “It was Jane who said the kitchen looked like a Mexican restaurant--”

“Mexican restaurants are fun,” Darcy said mirthfully. 

“I like them,” Brock began. Darcy beamed at him.

“I caught her trying to hex Nancy Reagan’s dress,” Darcy said.

“What?” he said. 

“Horrible woman,” Dahlia muttered.

“Mom, give it up, she’s dead now,” Darcy said. “Isn’t she? Am I remembering that right?”

“I think so?” Brock said, looking between them.

“How many other people are dead, that’s the point,” Dahlia said. “You’re just too young to remember the AIDS crisis, darling. Some things are unforgivable.”

“I know that, Mom, but you’d probably just end up giving eczema to some poor museum curator who would have voted for Carter back then,” Darcy said. “Not a big donor with shady money.” Dahlia scoffed. 

“You can hex a dress?” Brock said.

“You can hex anything,” Dahlia said. 

“Oh,” he said. Dahlia raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve gone quite pale,” she said.

“Mom, stop terrifying him, he has a gun,” Darcy said.

“Oh, really?” Dahlia said, voice shifting.

“I have, uh, one, yes,” Brock admitted. “Work gun.”

“What are your feelings on gun control?” Dahlia said.

“I like it? Idiots shouldn’t have arsenals,” Brock said, uncertain of her response. Dahlia smiled brightly.

“His opinions are all very correct,” she told Darcy. She looked at Brock carefully. “So far. How do you feel about Harry Potter?” Dahlia asked, eyes narrowing.

“Uhhhh,” Brock said.

“Don’t answer that, it’s a trick question,” Darcy said. “Although we’re both mad at She Who Cannot Be Named right now.”

“Extremely,” Dahlia said. Her teacup rattled.

“Okay,” Brock said. “I’m a little old for those. They’re kids’ books, right?”

“Oh, he’s adorable,” Dahlia said. The oven dinged.

“I’ll get those,” Brock said. He had no idea what was in the oven. “What are they?”

“Brownies,” Darcy said, as he walked backwards towards the kitchen. 

“Okay,” he said. He was pulling them out of the oven when he heard Darcy talking.

“You’re doing such a good job,” she was saying. It took him a second to realize that she was talking to the knitting needles.

“Do I not get any praise?” Dahlia said archly.

“You’re being very well-behaved, Mom,” she said. “I was very proud of you when you didn’t steal those pearls.”

“Pearls need to be worn,” Dahlia insisted. “They get luster from contact with skin. You cannot just leave them in a display--don’t laugh, you have a beautiful face for jewelry. I don’t understand why you don’t wear any.”

“Why don’t you wear jewelry?” Brock said, stepping back into the living room. 

“See?” Dahlia said. 

“Stuff clashes with glasses,” Darcy said, blushing. “Wouldn’t it be too much?”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I kinda like too much.” 

“Oh,” Darcy said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just keep adding to this whenever I see a particularly inspiring Halloween gif or moodboard. Link round up!
> 
> Kat Dennings is apparently into knitting and knitted a cute cowl from Outlander that I love: https://twitter.com/Outlander_STARZ/status/1197935585341538304?s=20
> 
> The First Ladies' dresses: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/videos/category/arts-culture/the-first-ladies-dresses-at-the-smithsonian/
> 
> Fireworks-inspired lights for anyone who's never seen them: https://yespumpkindoodlesthings.tumblr.com/post/628007912784216064/reblogging-cause-i-missed-dizzykarma-asking


End file.
